


Sins, Not Tragedies

by Kleenexwoman



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Incest, Infidelity, M/M, mostly canon compliant, on the down low
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Under the brown fog of a winter noon<br/>Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant<br/>Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants<br/>C. i. f. London: documents at sight,<br/>Asked me in demotic French<br/>To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel<br/>Followed by a week-end at the Metropole."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins, Not Tragedies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrWorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrWorm/gifts).



Aloysius cannot quite recall when he met Charles DuChamp, but he knows that it was sometime between his leaving the grounds of the Maison de la Rochenoire in short pants and an incongruous tie for the first time, and leaving it for the last time for Oxford. He does remember the moment with crystal clarity—the thin boy sobbing unpleasantly into a handful of paper towel because some older boys had stolen his sketching pencils and broken them, the astonished look on his face when Aloysius offered him a monogrammed handkerchief to cry into. He remembers dragging Charles to find the older boys who'd destroyed his possessions, hugging Charles to his side and telling the boys with all the grandeur he could possibly muster that they were to cease tormenting his new friend immediately, and the awe in Charles's eyes when he said it. 

He also remembers trying his utmost to incapacitate the louts with a well-placed leg sweep followed by a move called Cobra Strikes at the Mouse's Nest, but his grand plan for showing off his skill at martial arts had been somewhat hampered by the fact that he was a rank beginner and the older boys were on the football team. Perhaps it had taught him a valuable lesson about not underestimating the power of brute force, or not overestimating your own skill, but all he remembers taking away from that moment was the understanding that even though he lost badly Charles was willing to adore him for trying. He doesn't remember the pain from the black eye, but he does remember posing for Charles, striking the most heroic pose he possibly could with bony limbs and a swollen face while Charles sketched out the angles of his pugnacious flailing from memory, captured the contours of his bruises in #2 pencil and foolscap. 

It is easy to set the memory at the very beginning of his time in the wider world, because he cannot remember being a young man without being in love with Charles DuChamp. The glow of that pre-erotic affection has faded, replaced by more direct and mature passions, but his memory of it is the only thing that leavens the torment of the rest of his adolescence. The horror of finding Incitatus crucified is shot through with the memory of Charles comforting him, of spending a delightfully mindless afternoon playing with Charles's black-and-white kitten on the flowered lawn of a multicolored, dilapidated Painted Lady of a Victorian house. The vague and inexplicable pangs of guilt he felt on catching sight of his brother's ruined blue eye are relieved by the bliss he felt at having rescued Charles's wire-rimmed spectacles from the same louts that had been so determined to destroy his pencils. The disgust he had felt at his own body, his own responsiveness to pain and sensation and the terror that kept his sleeping form rigid and defensive at night against his brother's ministrations—even though he fears that terror of the corporeal will never go away, it is nonetheless easier to bear when contrasted with the peace he felt lying snuggled in a hammock with Charles, ostensibly memorizing poetry for class and sipping lemonade but truly just glorying in the soft warmth of Charles's body, the rhythm of his heartbeat and his breath. 

He doesn't remember kissing Charles, but he remembers wanting to, wanting to touch Charles's skin, run his fingers through his hair. At the time, he thought of this desire as a kind of misplaced brotherly love, a peaceful and pleasurable alternative to Diogenes's casually intimate violence. Charles was the brother he wanted to have and was denied, his sensitivity preferable to Diogenes's volatility, his aesthetic sensibilities less disturbing than Diogenes's fearful decadence, his need to be rescued and his unending gratitude at his would-be savior's mere offer of beneficence infinitely kinder than the nagging reminder that Aloysius had, in some way, failed to protect his brother and brought disaster on whatever love there was between them. This sensual attraction to the boy he wished was his brother was a logical response to the cruelty between him and his real brother. That was what he felt to be rational, what some Jesuit priest or psychologist might have said had he ever dared to confess his feelings to anyone who wasn't Charles. 

Sometimes he thinks of his far-flung network of friends and connections as a kind of alternative family, built slowly and haphazardly in spurts of danger and violence to replace the one he lost, the one that was never quite satisfactory. He has brothers and sisters, some dead and some alive, some with elements of desire and some without; he has two girls he chose that could easily be daughters to go with the boys he discovered to be his sons. It even makes it easier to bear the distance, to justify his reticence towards them. Family is family without qualification, without the constant and obligatory reassurances of a needy lover. 

*

It's not long after their honeymoon when he returns from an early morning walk to find Helen frantically throwing clothes into a suitcase. “There's been a wicked hurricane in San Veronica, the country's in a terrible situation, so many people sick and injured and dying—I just got the call. I'm going on the next flight out.” 

Aloysius sits on the bed and watches her pack. He knows, intellectually, that Helen absolutely must leave, that her presence somewhere hot and undeveloped for a few weeks will save lives and is not negotiable, and he has no right to be jealous or upset. But he is filled with panic at the idea that the day he had envisioned for them is falling apart, that he will be forced to spend an unspecified amount of time in this house with these gigantic echoing rooms and noxious memories. “Must you today?” he pleads. “Can't it wait?” 

Helen goes into the bathroom, emerging with a toothbrush in a plastic case. She tosses it on top of the pile of clothes in her suitcase and slams it shut. “No. It can't wait. There are people dying, Aloysius, and they need all the help they can get right now.” 

He places his hands in his lap, feeling ashamed at his own neediness. Helen sighs and kisses him on the forehead. “I'm sorry this is short notice, but that's the nature of things. And I know we had tickets to the symphony tonight, and I know how much you hate to rattle around in this old place...” She latches the suitcase shut. “Judson was coming to visit us anyway. I called him and asked him to be here tonight, if he could. You can take him to the symphony instead. I'm sure he'll enjoy that.” 

Aloysius remembers Judson, faintly, from the wedding. Helen had asked Judson to come early, to assist in the preparations. Aloysius hadn't been interested in anything as crass as a bachelor party. So while Helen readied herself, the night before the wedding, Judson had kept him company. 

The first impression he had gotten was that Judson was a masculine version of Helen, and he hadn't quite known why. They didn't quite look the same—a resemblance in the face, around the mouth, as one would expect from a brother and sister. He was classically handsome and masculine, and Aloysius had shaken his hand and given him a genuine smile. He had felt the same spark of desire in his stomach that he'd felt with Helen, an unnameable hunger unspooling. 

They had spent the evening in a drawing room, the smell of old leather mingling with the smell of the port Judson had brought. Aloysius remembers thinking that he had wanted his life to be like this when he was thirteen, to spend the evening before his wedding to a beautiful woman in a room made for rich men. But at thirteen, drinking port and talking aimlessly of Greek sculpture and Romantic poetry with an attractive man would have meant something different, something innocent. Brotherly. He remembers being wise enough to know what the desire meant, but also believing it to be an errant urge, something to be repressed and eventually overcome. 

Judson pouring him port, exchanging glasses with him, his fingers brushing Aloysius's. Judson inviting him to play billiards, offering to adjust his stance, his body pressed against Aloysius's. The looks they exchanged, the low tones they spoke in, the sudden awareness of his body and its contrast to Judson's. He had been so willowy back then, had felt delicate and fragile so often, and Judson was so solid, so muscular. 

But nothing had happened. They had both gone to their separate bedrooms, Judson to the guest room Helen had carefully made up for him and Aloysius to the master bedroom. The enormous bed had felt hard and cold. He had imagined Helen next to him, soft and warm and yielding in his arms, and had imagined Judson next to him, solid and reassuring with his arms around Aloysius. Both of them, brother and sister, keeping him warm... 

He realizes that Helen has rarely spoken about Judson since then, and he wonders if this was by design. “I can fend for myself,” he says. “I appreciate the efforts to provide me with appropriate company, but I certainly don't need you to arrange it for me.” 

“It was Judson's idea.” Helen latches the suitcase. “He wants to get to know you better. He never got to...” She stares at her suitcase. “Never got to have a brother, and you two are family now. You ought to spend more time together.” 

She leaves, and it's hours before Judson arrives. Aloysius's chest is tight with anticipation. He bathes, scours the house for port, considers sending Maurice out for a bottle, spends an hour rearranging the drawing room, has Maurice make up the guest room. He tries to read, but nothing written can hold his attention, and he eventually settles on sitting in the garden with a bottle of white wine. It would all be easier if he just knew what to expect, if he knew Judson well enough to anticipate what he might do, what he might want. This could be nothing, just a get-to-know you session until his wife returns, and he tries to tell himself to not expect much. 

He's nearly finished the bottle when the leaves rustle, and a man pushes his way through the bushes. Judson, with a bottle of the same port he brought on Aloysius's wedding eve. “Maurice said I'd find you here,” he says, and sits down next to Aloysius. “I'm keeping you company while my sister's off patching up earthquake victims.” 

“Hurricane,” says Aloysius, “it was a hurricane.” He offers the near-empty bottle to Judson, his hand shaking a little. “I'm afraid it's gotten too warm to be properly served in the heat, but it's still quite good.” 

Judson takes the bottle and puts his lips to the rim. Aloysius watches him drink from it, his throat exposed. “It's good,” he says. “Good vintage, whatever it is.” 

“I have tickets to the symphony,” Aloysius says. “Helen said she thought you might like it. I believe they're playing Tchaikovsky.” 

Judson shrugs. “We can, if you want. I don't particularly care for Tchaikovsky. Too delicate. But it's been a long time since I've been to a recital.” 

Aloysius thinks of escorting Judson into the symphony hall, hanging off his arm. Would they stride in like brothers or friends, or would Judson put a hand on his arm, on the small of his back? Would people stare? Would he care if anyone did? Aloysius has carefully cultivated a hermit's social habits, drawn out only by Helen's occasional enthusiasm for crowds. Hiding inside the walls of an estate for safety has become a family tradition at this point. 

“I wouldn't want to bore you,” he says. 

Judson smiles. “You don't bore me. Anyway, I was intending to stay for a week or so, if you don't mind having me around. I thought tonight you could show me around the grounds—I barely got to see anything last time I was here, and it's a beautiful place.” 

“I would love to.” Aloysius takes the bottle back and puts his lips on the rim, where Judson's were. The bottle is empty, and he knows it. The glass is still warm, and he imagines it is from Judson's mouth. 

“Here.” Judson removes the top from the bottle of port and offers it to Aloysius. 

Aloysius shakes his head. “I've had enough already. I don't usually partake before sunset.” 

“I do.” Judson tips his head back, taking a swig. Before Aloysius knows what's happening there is a strong hand on the back of his head and lips on his, a tongue pushing past his lips, and a flood of strong, sweet port in his mouth. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, tasting the sweet burn of the port, letting it trickle down his throat as he kisses his brother-in-law. 

Judson is on top of him now, strong solid body pressing him down into the warm grass. The port is gone but the taste remains and it is only their mouths, their tongues, Aloysius biting Judson's lower lip. Judson puts his hands on Aloysius's shoulders and presses his lips to Aloysius's jawline, down to his neck. Aloysius knows his white skin will bear Judson's marks for days, but he doesn't push him away. 

This is rough, almost frantic, nothing like the gentle caresses of his friendship with Charles. The feeling of being overpowered like this should make him panicky, should remind him of struggling with Diogenes when everyone else was asleep...but there's nothing there but a vague awareness of what should be happening and is not. It's getting him excited, instead, wondering what Judson will do next, what he might want later. Aloysius is fully prepared to surrender entirely to anything Judson wants. The absolute totality of this desire is intoxicating, freeing, and his entire body shivers as he imagines the potential of this scenario—the limitlessness of what Judson might do to him. 

And then Maurice is calling them in for dinner, and the sun is going down. Judson levers himself off Aloysius, his face red, and brushes himself off. “I suppose we should go.” 

“We should,” Aloysius agrees. They do not dress for dinner. Aloysius is acutely aware of the grass stains on his back, of Judson's cocked grin. He is sure Maurice can see the prints of Judson's hands on his sides, on his chest, on his thighs. He eats slowly and awkwardly, chatting with Judson about small things. The weather in New Orleans, whether Helen's plane might have landed yet (and this fills him with a frisson of anxiety he is determined to ignore; there is nothing he can do and worrying will not help), how delicately Maurice prepared the _coq au vin_. 

Judson doesn't speak much. He'll nod and agree, shake his head in sympathy, and then give Aloysius a roguish grin or a flirtatious glance. It startles Aloysius each time, derails any small talk he might have had in mind. In his mind, he chokes on his soup, stammers into oblivion. In his mind, Judson reaches across the table to hook a finger into Aloysius's collar and capture his mouth with his own. 

At last, Aloysius puts down his fork. He is sure his body is giving him away, certain his hands are trembling with anticipation, certain his face is bright pink by now. “I suppose that we ought to get dressed soon, if you still wanted to go to the symphony,” he says. 

Judson shrugs. “I wasn't looking forward to it. I'd rather stay in and finish off that bottle of port with you.” 

“Let's,” Aloysius murmurs. 

This time, there is no pretense. Judson pushes Aloysius against the polished oak wall of the drawing room and kisses him hard. Aloysius can feel Judson's hands clenching on his shirt, and he is excited by the way the fabric strains against his body, as though Judson could rip off his clothing with his bare hands. His heart races when Judson picks him up by his waist and lifts him onto the billiards table (with a great deal of Aloysius's cooperation), when Judson spreads him out on the green baize like some kind of whorish offering and climbs on top of him. Aloysius can feel Judson's hard cock through his trousers, and his stomach flutters. Judson ruts against him fully clothed, the warmth of his body a contrast to the cool surface of the ivory balls that Aloysius's searching hand keeps finding. 

Aloysius has an excellent memory, but the rest of the evening is a blur forevermore. He remembers high points. Judson sitting in a leather chair, fully clothed and with a snifter of port in his hand, as Aloysius takes off his shirt and kneels before him, and Judson cards his fingers through Aloysius's hair affectionately before he unzips. It's not just the taste of Judson's cock, the feel of it on his tongue; it's the sense of submission, that Judson is sitting like a lord on _his_ furniture in _his_ room in _his_ estate and Aloysius is still willing to kneel before him like this. Judson bending him over a mahogany desk, certainly an antique, and fucking him until Aloysius's fingers dig into the sides of the desk and the piece wobbles alarmingly with every thrust, Aloysius moaning as his cock rubs against the polished wood. 

It's like a sordid second honeymoon, the week that Helen is away. Fucking Judson feels like a release of tension, and while Judson is there Aloysius is incapable of shame. Judson spreads himself out on the bed, naked and stroking his cock, and Aloysius lowers himself down until Judson is inside him, filling him up. Judson finds an ancient four-poster bed and uses Aloysius's silk ties to tie him to the posts, touching his body in ways Aloysius can't predict, teasing him with his mouth, then pushing inside him while he's bound and helpless. Judson drawing a bath for them in an old clawed bathtub, big enough to seat two, and tasting every inch of Aloysius's slick, wet skin before ducking underwater and sucking his cock. 

They lie in bed one night, the first night Judson consents to sleep next to Aloysius, naked and sweating. Aloysius gets up to open the window, and the sultry night air brushes against his skin like a kiss. The sound of insects singing love songs drifts in through the open window. Aloysius realizes that the moon is full, and that he has barely thought of Helen all week. 

She is home before he knows it, sunburned and ten pounds lighter, spreading the rumpled contents of her suitcase across the bed. “Those poor refugees,” she says distantly. “Those poor, poor people...Did you have a nice time with Judson?” 

Aloysius is standing in the doorway, his head reeling from the sudden presence of his wife. He's spent the last few weeks becoming accustomed to her absence, to Judson's occupation of his space and his body. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hadn't expected to see Helen again, at least not for a long time. “We spent quite a bit of time together.” 

“Good.” Helen is dividing her clothes up into piles according to some system he doesn't understand and doesn't care to think about. She stops in the middle of folding a shirt. “It's a shame he has to leave so early tomorrow.” 

“He does?” Aloysius cannot conceive of Judson being out of his life so quickly. He studies Helen, comparing her to his first memory of her. She is lovely, yes, but it's as though some aura has faded from her. She has become more human over the course of their relationship and it's only now that he's realized it. 

“Business,” Helen says tersely. Aloysius thinks she's upset, but it's almost a relief for him. Helen and Judson seem to get along well, at least from what Helen tells him, but he's never really seen them interact for long periods of time, with the intimacy he supposes a brother and sister who love each other would have. He prefers to think of Helen as something apart from a family, in any case; he has sometimes feared that to imagine her tangled in those ties, the way he is, would diminish her. And on a more practical level, there is the question of his relationship with Judson—how to conduct oneself around one's wife and one's brother-in-law whom one has just conducted a passionate affair with? He doesn't have the faintest idea. 

“Of course,” he murmurs. And over the next months of their marriage, the memory of Judson is pushed into the back of his mind. It does not entirely fade, but it seems to belong to another person, another life; did he really let his brother-in-law push him over that leather chair and fuck him silly, did they really swim in the pool naked and lick the chlorine water off each others' bodies? 

*

Judson is at the funeral. Aloysius doesn't notice him until there's a firm hand on the small of his back and an arm around his shoulder, a kiss on the cheek, and then Judson is speaking, telling the small gathered company nonsensical stories about Helen's childhood. Aloysius can't listen to them, can't hear anything that anyone is saying. Condolences and memories drop into a black pit of despair. Aloysius cannot possibly feel anything except for a grief too large to understand, too overwhelming for anything as mundane as sadness. 

But the sight of Judson brings a wave of a nastier feeling. Grief turns to regret turns to shame turns to guilt. Aloysius leaves the service and goes to vomit, desperately hoping that the physical purge will mirror some inner one. It's as though memories come up with his lunch. Judson's hand on his, Judson's mouth on his, their bodies pressing together hot and sticky—all of the sensory memories are tainted now, corrupted with the presentiment of Helen's death. The tension between them before the wedding, the weeks of pleasure they spent in New Orleans, the hunting trip where the smell of Scotland's mires and the stink of stag musk during the day only fueled their desire for each other at night... 

He loathes himself, his body, his desires. His wife is dead and he was callous enough to betray her before she died, to tempt her own brother into betraying her as well. He cannot bear himself, cannot even be in the same room with himself. 

The next thing Aloysius senses is a sharp, biting pain in his hands, and some semblance of a cleared head. He looks down and his hands are full of glass shards, and there is more glass sparkling on the bathroom counter. There is blood everywhere and there is a cold numbness in the pit of his stomach, the hot roiling hate and shame ebbing out with each drop of blood spilled, each pang of pain in his hands. He stands there, feeling very calm, and telling himself that he must face a life without Helen now, he must make plans, he must go on. Helen would have surely wanted it that way. He has no idea what Helen would have wanted, whether she would have been flattered and excited by his outburst of temper at her loss, or whether she would have rushed to his aid with bandages and gauze. 

The bathroom door opens behind him, and he can see Judson's eyes, reflected in a million different ways in the shattered mirror. “Aloysius? Jesus, what did you do to yourself?” Judson rushes forward and grabs Aloysius's bleeding hand, his fingers slipping over the blood slowly oozing from the wounds. “What did you do?” 

A bitter laugh rises in his throat, like the bile that rose in his throat just a few minutes ago. “What did I do? What didn't I do? What didn't _we_ do?” 

“This is not the time for that,” Judson mutters. He yanks the shards of glass out of Aloysius's hands, then takes his scarf off and tears it in half, his face turning red with the exertion. He wraps each half around Aloysius's hand, pulling it as tight as he can. Aloysius enjoys it in spite of himself, the care and attention that goes into each yank of the scarf, each tightening of the makeshift bandage. He hopes his hands go numb. 

Later, when Aloysius has been somewhat mended, Judson is the one to escort him home. The house is dark and lonely, and Aloysius does not think he can bear it. He turns to Judson to ask him to stay a night, just one night, but Judson pushes him against the wall and stops Aloysius's mouth with his before he can even speak. 

It is impossible not to respond, not to love the squirming and warm and solid body against his, to desperately hope that whatever they do tonight will drive away Helen's ghost for a little while. Aloysius can only break the kiss and gasp, “Didn't you love your sister?” 

“Didn't you love your wife?” Judson says, and kisses him again. The moon is full, and as they make their way upstairs, hands pushing away coats and unbuttoning shirts, Aloysius feels the light of it on his face like a loving hand. He turns his face away. 

Judson is gentle this time, kissing Aloysius's body, caressing his hair and wrapping him in his arms. He prepares Aloysius gingerly and slides in slowly, rocking their bodies together. Aloysius turns his face away from the moonlight streaming in from the window and wishes it were harder, crueler, so he wouldn't have any room to feel anything at all. 

He does not speak to Judson again for years. 

*

Aloysius is not particularly attracted to Vincent D'Agosta the first time he sees him, but he feels a rush of compassion and trust for him that is unprecedented—a hardened cop, vomiting on the pavement like a rookie. 

He watches the man bend over, face red and twisted in horror. When it looks like he's finished, Aloysius places a hand on his arm, lets him steady himself. The cop's arm is well-muscled without being wiry. He puts his hand on the man's back, helps him stand up—of course, it's not necessary, but he supposes it might be comforting (for the man who's vomiting at the sight of a gory mess, or for the man who's barely dared to touch anyone else in years). His body is solid, thick, immensely appealing. Aloysius feels himself drawn to the man as if they were two magnets, purely physical, and he is slightly disappointed when the man stands up and moves a few steps away. 

Aloysius finds himself stepping forward, offering the man his linen handkerchief with a slight flourish. The man takes it and nods his thanks, wiping his mouth with it. He looks pale now, shaken. Aloysius immediately begins to discuss his deductions about the nature of the gory scene before them, trying to ignore the combination of hope and bile that has begun to swirl in his stomach. 

It's important, he's learned, to be able to step back—not to repress or ignore, but to look at something with a cool and clinical view, to make decisions untainted by emotion and then to put them away. He likes this man, likes him with a supernatural immediacy he hasn't felt in years. This means something, and he isn't willing to decide what yet. It's not a matter of shame, not anymore; it's a matter of professionalism. 

And it means that he can enjoy getting to know Vincent D'Agosta, take pleasure in the way they quickly learn to work together, without apprehension. He can like the fact that D'Agosta is clearly a tactile person without it meaning anything (except that it does; each touch on the shoulder or the arm or the back is more than just a touch at all, and it calms him and excites him each time). He can like the fact that they get along together, that he can be as friendly as he cares to and D'Agosta can match it (except that the glances, the eye contact, the teasing tone he learns to hear in the other man's voice reminds him more and more of that fateful wedding eve with Judson, the desire and tension that came to inevitable fruition so long after). He knows this and he puts it aside, tries not to expect anything at all except for a good working relationship and a solved mystery. 

After it's over, after the danger and the impossible monsters and the frantic running around in the sewers, he realizes that he will miss Vincent D'Agosta immensely. He's spent the last ten years becoming so self-reliant, so physically adept, so able to adapt to any situation, to become master of it. He is wary of death but no longer fearful of it; he is cautious of danger, but knows he can handle anything. He has learned to comfort himself with the awareness of his own competence because he is not willing to trust anyone else. But he trusts D'Agosta. He feels better when the other man is near him, when he has someone to rely on. He's forgotten what that was like, thought he'd grown out of it. 

He's told D'Agosta that he'll be heading out directly, no further business in New York. But hope springs eternal, and he tells the receptionist at the hotel the FBI has booked for him that he'll be staying another night. With that, he leaves to loiter around the entrance of One Police Plaza. D'Agosta comes out around nine, civilian clothes on—blue jeans and a flannel shirt, which Aloysius finds appealing—and Aloysius falls into step beside him. 

“Good evening, Officer,” he murmurs, and watches in pleasure as D'Agosta does a double-take. 

“Shit, you surprised me. You always creep around like that?” 

“Often. It's become a bit of a habit.” Aloysius matches pace with him, listening for the sound of his own footsteps. Surely he makes some noise. “I apologize if I startled you.” 

“I'm not usually this jumpy.” Both men know that he doesn't have to explain why. “And I'm not on duty now. It's just Vinnie.” 

“Ah. Vinnie.” 

“It sounds weird when you say it.” D'Agosta—Vinnie—continues straight ahead, not really looking at Aloysius. “So, what's up? Another disembowelment happen while I was doing the paperwork?” 

With a sinking feeling, Aloysius wonders whether he has miscalculated, mistaken the other man's friendliness and warmth for some kind of attraction when it might have been nothing at all. He reassures himself with the idea that if he's careful, he'll never have to come back to New York. He can pick and choose his assignments if he likes. “No, this is entirely personal. A dinner invitation, in fact.” 

D'Agosta's steps falter. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Dinner. Huh.” 

“If you'd like.” Aloysius knows he's made a mistake, now. At the very least, he can lubricate the offer with a lie, ensure they part on good terms or at least ambiguous ones. “I've always wanted to try the toro at Sasabune, but I despise eating good food alone, and you're really the only person I know in this city.” 

D'Agosta shrugs, and it seems he's been set back on track. “I'm not really a sushi kind of guy. I bet Bill Smithback would join you, though.” 

“I was hoping you would. No matter, if you're busy.” Aloysius can feel his heart sinking, the breath catching in his throat, stomach icy with disappointment. 

D'Agosta looks directly at him, now. His face is carefully set in a neutral expression, as though not wanting to betray what he's feeling. Aloysius is surprised; D'Agosta has not struck him, in their acquaintance, as the type of person to hide his feelings. “I would. But I have to get home to my wife and kids.” 

“Ah. I apologize for bothering you.” Aloysius wants to fade into the shadows, mask the noise of his steps, disappear entirely. 

“Okay, look. Look.” D'Agosta stops and puts his hand on Aloysius's arm. “I like you. I do. I know we were kind of...” He makes a gesture that Aloysius can't quite follow. “You know.” 

“Flirting.” Aloysius almost blurts it out. “I was, I admit, and I was under the impression that you were reciprocating.” 

“I didn't mean to lead you on,” D'Agosta says. He shakes his head. “Jesus, I never thought I'd actually get to say that to anyone. I never thought you'd actually be interested in a guy like me.” 

Aloysius supposes he should comfort D'Agosta—tell him that he's intelligent, handsome, passionate, all of the things any sane man would value in a lover. And he is all of those things. But looking at the man, his thick solid body clad in flannel and jeans, listening to his rough New York accent and his slangy way of speaking...Aloysius fears his interest in Vincent D'Agosta is at least partially very shallow. He is so different from Charles's delicacy and sensitivity, so different from Judson's pretensions at sophistication. 

“I am,” he says at last. “Very much so.” 

“Shit,” says D'Agosta. “Where were you twenty years ago?” 

“Married,” says Aloysius. He wonders if D'Agosta's marriage is a happy one, if he loves his wife or stays with her out of Catholic obligation. It's certainly none of his business. It would be the height of hypocrisy for him to judge someone for an extramarital affair, yet he would be terribly disappointed in D'Agosta if he was eager to stray. 

“I don't cheat,” D'Agosta says, and Aloysius is pleased to imagine a note of resignation in his voice. 

“I wouldn't ask you to,” Aloysius says. “I always regretted it.” He shrugs. “But your regrets may be different than mine.” 

“Yeah,” D'Agosta says. “I guess they would.” He seems almost lost in thought. Aloysius considers what would be the right thing to do, what would be the thing to do that might convince Vincent D'Agosta into his bed, and decides to split the difference. 

“I suppose you've made up your mind,” he says. “It's been a pleasure working with you. I hope we run into each other again under less dangerous circumstances.” He turns on his heel and walks away, counting his steps, waiting for D'Agosta to follow him. 

He looks back after a few moments, and D'Agosta is gone. It's probably just as well, he thinks. 

And now he has nothing to do for an entire evening in New York City, one of the most dynamic places on the planet. He hunches into his overcoat and paces down the street, away from D'Agosta, away from his hotel, away from any point of reference he has in the city. He had thought it was impossible to feel the kind of anticipation he'd felt, that his Buddhist training and his mindfulness had almost eradicated any desire except for the petty ones, the cultivated ones that spoke far more about his class and breeding than they did anything real about him. His desires were regulated, acceptable, vague and fleeting...but this one is here with a hunger, something that can't be satiated with expensive sushi. 

New York is unknown territory, a safari. The most dangerous game. There is a scent out there on the night wind, the smell of street gyros and automobile exhaust mingling with the organic funk of the sewers, of the sweat of crowds. He looks up at the sky, expecting to see twinkling stars framed through spindly trees. Instead, he sees the points of spires framed against clouds, glowing orange from the taillights and neon, and the face of the full moon. 

“Helen,” he murmurs. He has not been watching for the full moon for years. Some sense of sentimental obligation had led him to watch for it for some time after Helen had died, hoping that he would conjure up some kind of rose-tinted memory of her, untainted by the memory of her violent death and the shame of his affair. After a few months, he had resigned himself to the intense regret he had felt when trying to commune with her memory. He had taken it as his due, a penance for his betrayal. After a time, it had been too much to bear, and he had intentionally buried the practice along with as much of her memory as he could. Mixing memory and desire, he thinks, and the deep rumbling of a passing taxi thrums through his body. _When the human engine waits/Like a taxi throbbing, waiting_. 

After all this time, he cannot discipline himself nearly as much as he thought he could. Not when faced with something he wanted and has been denied. His resolve has broken and he must accept it. He searches the faces of the men he passes for any sign of interest, finds it in too many faces. Too much interest, a naked hunger that makes him ashamed, an indifferent desire that repels him. 

If he would, he would find the one man like him in the city. He imagines him, pale and disappointed in some subtle and complex way, a pampered and sculpted exterior hiding something strong and ugly within. He would stalk him down the concrete throughways, letting the man lose him in a crowd before following his scent through the thicket of people. The man might hurry his steps, change his pace, toy with him; he might slow down, growing tired of the game and eager for Aloysius to find him. 

Aloysius would be the pursuer, but not the aggressor. The man would hide himself in an alley, in the shadows like a lion. Aloysius would find his scent, find where it stops, and the man would jump out on him and pounce on him, pinning him against the wall. The man would kiss him hard enough to bite, and the taste of blood would blossom in Aloysius's mouth. 

He thinks of the man in his imagination whispering in his ear, telling him the dirty things they're going to do, the filth the man wants. “Frater,” the man would whisper, “oh, my dear brother, so this is how we meet...” 

His imagination grinds to a halt. “Not that,” he whispers, “anything but that.” He forces himself to see him pushing away his brother—no, even that act of defense is acknowledging this perversion. He imagines himself pulling away a hat and scarf and coat from the man to reveal nothing there, only shadows. 

And then, there are only shadows, and the lights of New York chase them away from the dark corners of his brain. He hails a taxi to the hotel. Tomorrow there will be another murder. 

*

There is another murder. There are more murders in New York, and he cannot help but being thrown together with Margo and William and Vincent again. The repetition is pleasing, in a way. He has taken care throughout the years to avoid meeting people twice, and it's beginning to wear on him. It's easy to slip back into certain patterns of behavior, certain jokes and ways of touching. Especially with Vincent D'Agosta, who doesn't seem to have been scared off by Aloysius's invitation. He seems braver, in fact, even more tactile and more friendly than he was before. Aloysius thinks he sees overt flirtation in his voice, in his eyes. He dares to hope. 

And it is D'Agosta who approaches him afterwards. He has changed into his jeans and flannel shirt, and Aloysius still finds the combination exotic and enticing. “Hey. Are you sticking around?” 

“It depends on what opportunities present themselves,” Aloysius says, and they move along the streets, in no direction in particular. 

“Look,” D'Agosta says. “I thought about what you said about regrets.” 

“And?” 

“And I promised myself...” D'Agosta takes a deep breath. “I promised myself that if I lived through this bullshit, I'd take you up on your dinner invitation. You know, if you still want to try that place.” 

Aloysius catches his breath. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Of course.” 

“Except that I still don't like sushi,” D'Agosta says. He is walking with his head down, not quite looking at Aloysius but stealing glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, California rolls are all right, but I'm guessing that the kind of places you like to go probably don't serve those. So maybe...” 

“Yes?” Aloysius barely dares to breathe now. 

“Maybe we could skip the sushi part,” D'Agosta says. “I think I'd regret not trying sushi a lot less than the other part.” 

“I have a hotel room,” Aloysius says rapidly. “It's not particularly sumptuous, but I think it will suffice.” 

He turns and begins to pick his way through the crowd to the hotel, feeling as though he is floating, disconnected from his body. He can hear D'Agosta following behind him, the other man's heavy, deliberate steps on concrete. “Shit,” D'Agosta mutters to himself, “I can't believe I'm doing this.” But it is in a tone that sounds almost like wonder. Aloysius no longer worries that he will regret enticing a good man to sin, being the cause of a wrecked marriage or a lifetime shame. This is opportunity. This is a first for Vincent D'Agosta, perhaps the first taste of sexual freedom he will ever encounter. Aloysius conjures up a timeline of D'Agosta's pertinent milestones in his head, something hypothetical: First masturbation at an adolescent age immediately followed by a vague confession and a flurry of Hail Marys, furtive touching with a close friend in hidden places, a awkward sexual encounter with a woman he can only conceive of as being far too attractive to be interested in him (and the feeling of resentful gratitude that would go along with such a thing), unplanned children, a lifetime of passionless and mechanical sex. It is the only possibility he can imagine. 

The trudge through the hotel lobby, the moment of solitude in the elevator. D'Agosta is staring at Aloysius with the kind of hunger that makes him fear for a moment that D'Agosta has been tainted with the Mbwun chemical compound, that some bestial appetite is showing through. But D'Agosta steps forward, places a hand on Aloysius's shoulder, and kisses him. The kiss is nothing like the biting caress some part of him had craved; it is soft, almost tentative, and Aloysius treasures it. 

When they part, he presses a kiss to the side of D'Agosta's neck. “It will be all right,” he murmurs. 

They traipse into the hotel room and Aloysius does not bother to turn on the light. He flips on the light once they're in the sparse and impersonal bedroom. D'Agosta sheds his flannel shirt and drops it on the floor, pulls his undershirt over his head. His chest is wide and somewhat softer than Aloysius had imagined, covered with wiry black hairs. 

“Oh.” Aloysius goes to him, presses his lips to the man's chest. He savors the salt and musk of his sweat, the bristly feeling of the body hair against his sensitive lips. His knees seem to buckle involuntarily, and D'Agosta puts his arms around him, strong supportive hands on his back pressing them together. He is swooning clasped in this man's arms, and he doesn't think he's ever enjoyed anything more. 

He trails his hands and mouth down D'Agosta's body, over the swell of his stomach and his abdomen. D'Agosta places his hands on Aloysius's hand, and it feels like a benediction. He hopes D'Agosta feels the same way as he tongues the rough denim of his jeans, finds the zipper with his mouth and begins to drag the metal tab down clenched in his teeth. He can hear D'Agosta breathing hard and shallow and ragged, and he undoes the metal button and rubs his lips over the swell of the man's cock beneath his briefs. 

D'Agosta shoves down his jeans and his briefs, so eager, and he's almost naked except for his socks and the jeans pooling around his feet. Aloysius has had the presence of mind to shed his black jacket at the door, but he's still fully dressed, everything from his black silk tie to his polished shoes. He is armored and D'Agosta is vulnerable, but he is still the one on his knees. But this is kinder than kneeling in front of Judson. D'Agosta is gazing at him as though he's just been given some kind of extravagant present, mouth slightly open in awe, and Aloysius feels powerful. 

He presses a kiss to the purple head of D'Agosta's cock and drags his mouth along the dark, veiny underside. D'Agosta's cock is thick and hot, the mild olive tone of his skin darkening to brown. He rubs his cheek against it, leaving a streak of glistening precome on his pale skin. D'Agosta gasps, muttering words under his breath that Aloysius's sensitive ears catch. He has never liked obscenities in casual conversation and dirty talk seldom does anything for him, but the stream of “Oh, fuck” and “Goddamn” and “Jesus fucking Christ” leaving D'Agosta's mouth sounds more like endearments than anything Judson ever said to him. 

Aloysius is fully clothed, only using his mouth, but it's the most erotic experience he can remember having. D'Agosta's body seems exotic and comforting at the same time, the shape and feel and color unfamiliar, the smell and taste and bulk of it making a warm bubble of affection and longing rise in Aloysius's chest. He pulls his mouth off D'Agosta's cock and buries his face in the man's stomach, wrapping his arms around him. 

“Hey,” says D'Agosta, surprised. One hand goes to Aloysius's hair, stroking it. The other goes to his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?” 

D'Agosta's body is so warm, and New York seems so cold no matter what. Aloysius wants his body on top of him, covering him and protecting him. “I'm fine,” he says. “I'm quite all right.” He lifts his eyes to D'Agosta. “Do you want to fuck me?” 

“You want me to?” D'Agosta asks. 

“I wouldn't have suggested it if that wasn't my intention.” 

D'Agosta pulls him up immediately and kisses him. It's a sloppy, wet kiss, and Aloysius wonders if D'Agosta can taste himself on his tongue. He lets D'Agosta undress him, the strong calloused hands slipping off his shirt and pants. D'Agosta is so gentle, and Aloysius wonders if this is the way he is with his wife. If this is what he's used to from twenty years of marriage, or whether he'd be this way if Aloysius had met him decades ago or in another life. 

And he is gentle when Aloysius is naked, when he's on top of him in the squeaking, lumpy bed. He kisses Aloysius's pale skin, hands moving over his body as though he were something precious and delicate. Aloysius wonders whether it's his pallor and delicacy, still present in his movements even with the added muscle and strength, that entices D'Agosta. 

When D'Agosta slides a finger into him, Aloysius can feel every inch of it; when D'Agosta enters him, Aloysius thinks he can feel every vein and every bulge on his cock. The sensory impressions of D'Agosta thrusting into him, his stomach pressing against Aloysius's body, the firm warmth of his flesh and the way they move together as if one of them was carrying the other along—Aloysius feels so comfortable, so deeply taken care of in a way he can barely remember feeling. 

His orgasm is deep and subtle, curling his toes and spreading up through his whole body, blooming in his stomach and nearly making him weep. He cries out instead, gripping D'Agosta's shoulders. 

D'Agosta pulls out, leaving him empty and cold, and immediately settles down next to him. Aloysius can feel warm wetness fading to cool, trickling out between his legs. He realizes that their sex has been almost wordless, that the only noise ringing in his ears at all was D'Agosta's grunts and the squeaking of the mattress. He reaches out to brush D'Agosta's cheek. 

“I hope you don't regret this,” he says. 

D'Agosta reaches out to touch Aloysius, trails his fingers back and forth over his chest. “The problem is, I don't think I will.” 

*

When he receives the envelope from Judson inviting him to a hunt, Aloysius realizes what D'Agosta must have felt when he recognized him on the beach at Northampton. Surprise fading into shock, the memory of shame mingled with the shame of hope, and an undercurrent of deep suspicion. He cannot imagine that Judson has contacted him for any remotely wholesome reason. It is far more likely that his brother-in-law is part of the grand conspiracy surrounding Helen's death, whatever it might be, than that he has any particular interest in developing a relationship with Aloysius. Not after this long, with this little contact. Aloysius had never been under any illusions that his affair with Judson meant any kind of grand romance, and Judson had never given him any signs that he'd thought of it as such...

...but hope springs eternal, and Laura Hayward existed. Aloysius had not tried to rekindle anything between him and Vincent D'Agosta after he'd returned from the dead and found the other man in what looked to be the beginnings of a serious relationship with her. He had not even mentioned it. If D'Agosta had been in mourning for him, he thinks he never would have answered Judson's letter. Perhaps he never would have given Helen's death another thought in the first place, content to let her memory fade into the distant past where it could not hurt him. 

He accepts the invitation, and packs condoms and his Les Baer. When he sees Judson's familiar, well-proportioned frame, he feels the same spark of attraction that he had felt upon their first meeting...but it feels dull, now, untempered with the kind of trust and admiration he still feels for D'Agosta. Somehow it's comforting to confirm that his desire follows the same patterns as his heart, now. He has grown more experienced and more wary. 

Judson greets him with a brotherly hug. “I got one room,” he says. “I hope you don't mind.” 

Aloysius hugs him back, his body stiff and cautious. “Of course I don't.” 

Once ensconced in the safety of the bedroom Judson has booked, Aloysius drops his bags on the floor and kisses Judson. It is nothing like the first kiss they shared. Judson is hesitant, his lips closed tightly until they open in belated surprise. 

Aloysius draws back. “Is everything all right?” he inquires innocently. 

Judson gives him a tight, empty smile. “There's nothing wrong.” He yawns and stretches exaggeratedly. “I'm just tired. We should turn in early. Got to be rested up for the hunt.” 

“I didn't suppose you invited me here just to track a stag,” Aloysius says. 

“You're the closest thing I ever had to a brother,” Judson says. “It's been so long since we've seen each other. Don't you want to catch up? Just like old times.” 

The only old times they had together, Aloysius thinks, are fucking under Helen's unsuspecting nose. But perhaps she did suspect—he can't be sure of anything, anymore, except that Judson has invited him under dangerously ulterior motives, and that he has no choice but to be vigilant. There has been no disappointment, no shattered hopes, and for this he feels grateful. 

Later, in the dark and the mire, the kiss of the gun against his temple is no surprise. It is not until Judson's parting words—“She's still alive”—that he feels any fear. 

Yes, the slight possibility of Helen's existence has given him something to live for, but he knows it's a grasping at straws, an excuse for caring about anything that his brain has seized upon. As he tends to D'Agosta's hypothermic body, praying for his friend's consciousness, that spark of hope that was extinguished in him hours ago reignites. There is someone in this world who cares enough for him to nearly die for him. 

He presses a kiss to D'Agosta's forehead, then to his lips, and waits for him to waken.


End file.
